


Twice as Nice

by gdgdbaby, LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: 2008 Campaign Era, First Time, M/M, Pining, Polyamory, Spitroasting, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 13:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Dating your best friend's twin is nothing like what porn would suggest, until it is.





	Twice as Nice

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to all the spectators who cheerleaded, and especially to winterfold for looking this over and giving us some brilliant suggestions.

"You _what_?" Tommy says, and blinks up from his computer, eyes narrow. It takes at least half a minute for him to process what he's looking at. "Am I seeing double?"

Jon laughs, head tossed back, as Alyssa shakes her head. "This is Matt. Don't call him Matthew," Jon continues, turning to the room at large, flourishing a hand beneath Matt's chin. Matt grins, teeth flashing, and waves at the staffers peering curiously from their cubicles. "He's between jobs right now, so he decided to come out and help with the campaign." Jon's tone turns dry. "Before you ask, we are, in fact, identical twins."

It's not that Tommy didn't know Jon had a twin. He's seen pictures, even, of them tiny in matching Red Sox sweatshirts, but it's never been something about Jon that's really occupied the forefront of Tommy's consciousness. Not during those long hours in the Senate, nor on the campaign trail; there were always more important things to be worrying about, like whether immigration reform would pass, or who was leading in the polls.

Matt is more than just a half-forgotten anecdote about a brother on the West Coast, it turns out. He gets set up at a desk diagonally adjacent from Tommy and Jon's cubicle, a couple of empty cardboard boxes and hefty phonebooks cleared away to give him space. "Hi," Tommy says, smiling around the corner of his computer. "I'm Tommy."

"I know," Matt says, and grins. "Jon's told me a lot about you."

Tommy raises his eyebrows, sitting up straighter in his chair so he can look at Jon, who turns pink and shrugs kind of helplessly. "Only good things, I hope," he says.

Matt grins wider. "You know how Jon is," he says, voice low, like they're co-conspirators, and Tommy feels himself being drawn in, can't help it. "He's the nice twin. I'm the fun one."

"I can see this was a mistake already," Jon says, rolling his eyes, but he's laughing, and Tommy is, too, when he turns back to his work.

***

Matt floats around from department to department during his first week, helping with everything from data entry to phone banking. "Jack of all trades, master of none," Matt offers, when Tommy's rifling through Friday morning's newspaper clippings with him. He nods at Jon, who's across the room deep in conversation with Gibbs. "Jon's the one who specialized. He actually focuses on something enough to get really good at it, you know?"

Tommy shakes his head. "Hey, don't sell yourself short," he says, and ducks, flushing, when Matt beams at him.

He hasn't been blind, all these years, to what Jon looks like. Tommy just can't seem to keep himself from cataloguing all the little differences between the two of them: Matt's easy, open stance vs. Jon's more reserved nature, how they take their coffee (Matt straight black, Jon with as much sugar as he can cram into one cup), Jon's singular preference for college-ruled notebook paper and a closer shave for his hair. And all the ways they're the same, mirroring each other's gestures, talking animatedly with their hands, the little wrinkle in both their foreheads when they're concentrating. Tommy's always been preoccupied with details—it's part of what makes him good at his job. He isn't paid to keep track of the brothers Favreau, though, so he should probably stop devoting so much brain power toward that particular endeavor.

He tells himself that, and then they go out for dinner and drinks that evening with the rest of the office. Tommy ends up at a table with the twins and Ronnie, Mike and Ben. "I think Gibbs was talking about sticking Matt with you for a while," Ben says, as the first round arrives.

"I think it's a good fit," Jon says around the rim of his beer, and the corner of Matt's mouth curves upward.

"I'm very good at rapidly responding," he says, which launches the table into a crescendoing discussion of the worst same-day crises they've had to deal with thus far in the campaign. Tommy tries to get into it, reaching for stories from the Senate, from Iowa, but it's hard to stay on track, especially when Matt shakes his head and moves the conversation toward less harrowing topics. "It's the weekend," he says, grinning at Tommy. "We're supposed to be de-stressing, no?"

Jon laughs, slings an arm over the back of Matt's chair. They're just so ... cuddly, is the thing. Tommy's only known Matt a week, and Matt seems completely comfortable reaching across the table to grab Tommy's forearm to emphasize his points. Jon seems more tactile with Matt around, too. Looser.

Tommy downs half his beer. When he sets his glass down again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Matt's eyes are on Tommy's throat. As Tommy watches, Matt drags his gaze back up, leaning forward with his chin propped on one hand. His expression isn't unfamiliar; Tommy's seen the same thing half a dozen times before on the campaign trail over the past nine months, the kind of naked interest that usually ends with two people sharing a bed.

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered it before—hadn't jerked off in the shower just this morning thinking about sloe-eyed smiles and gap teeth—but it's not something he advertises, either.

Tommy's face is way too hot, and they've barely gotten through appetizers. It feels like a dead giveaway, but nobody calls him out. By the time the waitress comes back to take their entree orders, Matt has finally looked away. Ronnie jostles noisily from the end of the table to go to the bathroom, and Jon's hand-talking about a new stump speech they're working on ("I'm beginning to realize that it's truly impossible to extricate any of you from work," Matt puts in, dry), when someone's foot slides over and bumps against Tommy's underneath the table. It doesn't move away, either; it presses closer, with intention.

It's very hard to breathe, all of a sudden. Tommy can't exactly bend over to find out who's playing footsie with him in this gastropub, but he thinks he has a pretty good idea.

Matt dresses more casually than Jon, maybe because he's in a lower-level job ("Much more my speed," he says, laughing), but they're both in the same kind of fashionable jeans, so Tommy can't tell for sure by feel. It _seems_ like it must be Matt, because Jon's never—Jon's certainly never run his inexplicably shoeless foot up Tommy's ankle, up the leg of his own jeans. Neither have any of the others. It has to be the new element, surely.

Jon seems to really be getting into the finer details of his speech, anyway, which is just as well, because Tommy's finding it difficult to process anything he's saying. The foot lingers for a moment at the inside of Tommy's knee, and he clamps them together to trap the foot in between his legs, lets out a quick breath.

"Are you okay?" Jon says, blinking, having finally caught on, and Tommy sends him a tight smile. "You look—flushed."

"The wings were kind of, um, spicy," Tommy says, which is a little true. Matt's foot wiggles against the seam of his jeans, and Tommy exhales again. This is fucking crazy. "I'm fine."

There's enough movement when their food comes that Tommy loses track of the foot in question, and then he's focused mostly on stuffing his face. By the end of the night, Tommy hasn't forgotten about it at all, but it still takes him by surprise when Matt pulls him aside outside the restaurant before they all walk to the closest L station.

"Hey," Tommy says, feeling warm and stupid when Matt smiles at him. That last beer he ordered probably wasn't the greatest idea, but it's too late now.

"Hi," Matt says, rocking forward on his feet, hands tucked loosely in the pockets of his jeans. "So I was wondering—what does your Saturday look like?"

"I'll probably be on call, but unless something major happens—knock on wood—I should be free." Tommy licks his lips, watches Matt's gaze follow the sweep of his tongue. "Why?"

Matt shrugs, loose and easy. "We should grab lunch together, just you and me. I'd like to get to know you better."

"Know me better," Tommy parrots back. "This isn't a—tell me if I'm reading this wrong, but this isn't, like, about the Rapid Response team, is it?"

Matt laughs, tossing his head back, and it's impossible not to think about Jon when he does that, but the context is so different that Tommy feels arrested, rapt with attention, gaze fixed on the bob of Matt's throat. "No, Tommy. It isn't about work."

"Okay," Tommy says, and meets Matt's smile with his own. God. Why not? They've been running this marathon of a campaign for long enough that choosing to do something fun for himself for a change feels novel, luxurious. The good kind of reckless. "Let's do it."

***

Over the next several weeks, Tommy learns plenty of things about himself and about Matt. He learns that Matt was a psych major at Holy Cross, that he loves spicy food, that the quick twist of his mouth early in the morning means he's happy to laze around in bed and let Tommy kiss down his stomach.

It's easier than Tommy expected to fall into something more with him—easier than a lot of things have been over the past year and a half, really. They go out for runs together on the mornings Tommy sleeps over at his apartment, which happens more and more frequently as spring turns into summer. Tommy takes Matt to see the Bean (overrated), the Art Institute (better), and Wrigley Field for a baseball game (not as good as Fenway, but still cool). Some nights, when Tommy needs it most, Matt will roll over and hold Tommy down against the couch when he's getting too caught up in the day's news, distract Tommy with his mouth or his hands or the long, lovely press of his cock.

The other residents of the Pad catch on pretty quickly, if only because he's out of the house way more often. Jon doesn't look surprised, the first time Tommy and Matt walk into the office together with matching coffees, Tommy's shirt collar pulled up a little higher than usual to hide the hickey Matt left on his neck. Maybe Matt told him already—that would make sense. Tommy's not sure what he expected, exactly, but it's not the way Jon looks a little subdued in his half of their shared cubicle, hunched over tapping on his computer.

Tommy manages to corner him in the break room after lunch. "You're, um," he says, eyes scanning Jon's flushing face. "You're okay with this, right?"

"Of course," Jon says, but his gaze darts sideways, an obvious tell.

Tommy supposes it must be weird, that Tommy's dating his brother. One of Tommy's friends went out with his sister for a hot second in high school, and Tommy had _hated_ it. He couldn't stop remembering every single disrespectful thing that Trevor had said about women, ever, the whole time they'd known each other. It was all exactly the same stuff everyone had said—high school boys are fucking assholes, Tommy's not in the dark about that—but it burned when he thought about Trevor thinking of his sister like that.

"I miss you now I'm not around the Pad as much," Tommy says. "You should hang out with us."

Jon rubs his thumb between his eyebrows. "I wouldn't want to get in the way."

That, Tommy can handle. He grins and knocks his shoulder into Jon's. "You're always in the way, it's your best trait. C'mon, man. If you're not there to defend the honor of the Bruins—" 

"Oh, man, don't even get me started," Jon says, warming to the subject. "Matt is so fucking wrong about Rask. It's criminal how wrong he is."

"See, thank you," Tommy says, the knot in his chest untangling. "Tonight? Beer, hockey, Thai? And you gotta come with us to see Indiana Jones on Sunday."

Jon snorts out a breath, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure. Beer's on you, though." 

"Deal."

***

On June 3rd, the day after Jon and Matt's birthday, Senator Obama wins the last Democratic primary he needed for the simple majority of superdelegates. There's a wild party at another staffer's house that Saturday after Hillary's concession speech, smiling, laughing faces all around and the feeling of a tremendous weight being lifted off Tommy's shoulders. He's predictably sloshed by midnight, grin ironed onto his face, whole body buzzing.

Tommy's lost track of Matt. He's … somewhere. Tommy sips more of whatever's in his Solo cup. He's not sure what the last two refills were, but they burn his throat and they make him feel warm, so he's guessing they're fairly high on alcohol content. He appreciates the guy in the kitchen who made them for him. That guy is great. He loves that guy. Maybe that guy knows where Matt is.

He tries to chit-chat with Cody for a while, but Cody's face is out of focus, which makes it weird. Tommy's not going to tell him that, obviously. That would be rude. 

Cody wanders off after a few minutes, or … some period of time. Tommy doesn't exactly remember him leaving but he's not here, so he must have. Anyway. Matt. Tommy should find Matt. He wants to kiss Matt, and feel Matt up, and maybe get Matt in a dark corner and jerk him off. Yeah. That's a good—yeah.

He spots him, finally, in one of the back bedrooms, talking to someone Tommy doesn't know. "Hey!"

Matt lights up, and by the time Tommy gets to the bed, it's just them, the other person gone somehow. "Time is moving funny," Tommy confides to Matt. "It's wild."

"I think maybe you've had enough," Matt says, laughing, and pulls Tommy's cup out of his hands to set on the nightstand. "Time to get a cab, maybe?"

Tommy interrupts him with a kiss, pulling Matt's face close with a hand on his jaw, sliding his other hand up Matt's thigh. The brim of Matt's Red Sox cap knocks up and out of the way as Tommy presses closer. It feels amazing, even better than usual, and Tommy knows that's the alcohol but who cares; it feels fantastic. He laughs into Matt's mouth.

Matt is kissing him _weird_. It takes Tommy a little while to notice it, but then it's obvious: Matt is hesitant, and his hands are on the bed instead of on Tommy, and his whole mouth is just … different, in a way Tommy can't put his finger on.

… oh, _fuck_. It's not Matt. He's kissing Jon.

He's kissing Jon, and Jon's kissing him back, and has been for as long as it took Tommy to realize. And Tommy … Tommy's not stopping, either. He will, he means to, just—he's been thinking about what it would be like to kiss Jon for a long time, and he's too drunk to remember this if he doesn't linger over it, imprint it on his brain. 

The door bangs open, and Jon jumps back. If Tommy'd had any question about which twin he was kissing, that settles it. Matt loves to be caught with his tongue down Tommy's throat. He wouldn't jump back; he might slip a hand down to Tommy's ass just for the extra look of the thing. "Hey, guys," Cody says. "You seen Melody around?"

Tommy shakes his head, and Jon says, "I'll help you find her," and gets out the door before Tommy can say anything. He doesn't know what he'd say, anyway. 

Tommy tips his head back; it's spinning, and he's starting to have the feeling that he's going to feel much, much weirder about this in the morning.

***

Tommy wakes up the next morning alone in Matt's bed with a surprisingly mild headache. His body feels woozy, but all in all it doesn't seem like much of a price to pay for drinking enough that he accidentally made out with his boyfriend's brother.

About that … "Matt?" Tommy gets out of bed, adjusting his pajama pants from their sleep-twisted position on his hips, and wanders toward the kitchen. It's only about ten steps out; Matt's apartment qualifies as a one-bedroom, but only by dint of someone having decided to squeeze a bedroom wall in. It's tiny enough to be a little claustrophobic for Tommy, who's always preferred bigger spaces with roommates. 

Matt is frying bacon naked, because Matt is always very Matt, all the time. Tommy can't help but grin and walk over to plant a kiss on his shoulder. "Let me put an apron on you," he says. "Please. It terrifies me to watch."

"Anything for you, my dear," Matt tells him, grinning. "That kind of little burn is what wakes a man up in the morning, though."

"Maybe if you were wearing pants I'd agree," Tommy says, although he definitely would not. He drops the apron over Matt's head and ties it in the back, lets his hands wander a little. Groping Matt is so much more fun than confessing to misdeeds. The bacon's almost done; maybe they can eat first. Everyone takes bad news better after bacon. 

He takes a deep breath, sighs it out. He's not actually going to be that guy. He waits until Matt turns off the stove and starts laying the bacon on paper towels, then says, "Um, I have to tell you something."

"Shoot," Matt says, picking up a piece of bacon and crunching it, turning to look at Tommy. The apron Tommy put on him is a novelty one—an eight-pack torso wearing a well-packed Speedo—and it's hard for Tommy to focus on the topic at hand while he's looking at it, but easier than meeting Matt's eyes.

He covers his own eyes just long enough to give him some courage. "I, uh. Last night at the party I ran into you in the bedroom and kissed you, only—it wasn't you." Matt starts to say something, and Tommy holds up his hand. This is the bad part; he needs to just get it out. "I realized, like, during. But I didn't stop kissing him. I was really drunk, but that's not—that's not an excuse, obviously." 

Matt sets down the half-slice of bacon he's still holding. His face is inscrutable. "You made out with Jon?"

Tommy winces. "Yeah." He's trying to think what he'd have to collect if Matt just kicked him out—he's got a couple shirts here, a charging cord. His wallet. A toothbrush, but he can leave that. There's a couple of books by the couch—

"Damn, that's hot," Matt says, and slides a hand up Tommy's chest. "Did you like it?"

It takes Tommy what feels like a solid minute to even formulate a response to that. "Did I—" Both of Matt's hands are on him now, Matt moving in closer with an unsubtle sway of his hips. 

"Did you like it," Matt says again. "C'mon, you can tell me." His hands creep into the waistband of Tommy's pajamas. Tommy's still feeling a little hungover, but he's not dead, and Matt knows exactly how to get him going. 

With someone else, Tommy would think this was a trick question—setting him up to give the most offensive answer. But Matt doesn't do trick questions. "I mean … he looks exactly like you, so yeah, it was hot." It's not the whole truth, but it's part of the truth. 

"You know," Matt says, pitching his voice low, "he and I used to pick up together, sometimes. People really dig the twin thing."

Tommy swallows. "Yeah?" It still feels like a possible trap, even with Matt's hands cupping the curve of his ass and Matt's breath warm on his neck.

"Yeah. We'd make out at parties, sometimes, see who came up to us after. Mostly guys, but sometimes I let him talk me into taking girls home, if they were really into the idea. We just, you know, I'd take the top half and let him handle all the, uh, lady parts."

Tommy snorts. Matt is strictly, as he told Tommy once, "a man's man." Tommy can only vaguely picture him in the vicinity of a vulva. Jon, on the other hand, has a reputation on the campaign and possibly in their whole neighborhood of being well worth a woman's time to go home with. 

It's the other part that's more of a shock. "You and Jon and—men?" he asks. Tommy's never known Jon to date men. That's part of what—like, he likes Matt on his own merits, obviously, but it's not as though he didn't think, on meeting him, that the idea of a gay Jon clone was an unexpected gift from the universe. 

Matt laughs. "Yeah, sure, men," he says.

"But Jon took the … top half," Tommy prompts. Nothing else makes sense in his brain. 

Matt pushes back, catching Tommy's eye, head tilted. "No," he says, looking confused. "No, he's pretty full-body." His mouth curls up, teasing now. "You want to know what he did?"

Tommy wants to know so much that his throat is dry with it. He nods, not trusting himself to speak, and Matt's smile gets wider, dirtier. "He gives really good blowjobs, for one. This one guy we took home said it was the best he'd ever had. He can go all the way down, and we went home with some pretty monster dicks, so that's saying something."

"... oh," Tommy manages, faintly. "That's—unexpected."

Matt's left hand finds its way to Tommy's hardening cock. "Good unexpected, I guess," Matt says. "You know, sometimes we'd tag-team the more adventurous guys. Some of them wanted to be spit-roasted, you know? Like—sucking Jon off while I fucked them, maybe."

His hand starts moving, none too gently, on Tommy's cock. "Hot, right?"

Tommy could shut this down, right now, and he knows Matt wouldn't give him a hard time about it or even really mind. He could just change the subject, and Matt would go with him.

He says, instead, "Yeah. What else did you do?"

Matt laughs delightedly and tugs him back towards the bedroom. "I'll tell you all about it while you suck me off, babe."

"Deal," Tommy agrees. His mind is already swimming with the images, in sharper relief than the dirty thoughts he's had about the two of them and tried to keep under wraps. Now, apparently, he's free to contemplate the idea. This is not the outcome he expected from drunkenly making out with his best friend. 

"And then you have to bring me bacon in bed," Matt adds, turning to grin at him. "You owe me, you know. Since you kissed my brother."

Tommy can definitely live with that trade. He wraps an arm around Matt's waist, kisses the back of his neck, and follows him onto the bed.

***

Tommy brings Jon coffee and donuts on Monday morning. 

It's bribery, but it makes him feel a little less nervous about how, exactly, he's going to spend eight or ten hours in the same cubicle as Jon after kissing him on Saturday night. After mistaking him for Matt, which is maybe even worse, from Jon's perspective. Tommy doesn't know what it's like to be a twin, but he's betting that there are some sore spots around that kind of thing. 

Jon's already there when he gets in, and Tommy slides the coffee over to him and sets the box of donuts beside it. "Hey." 

"Hey," Jon says, and then goes silent. 

Tommy really feels like he's met his quota of starting hard conversations for the week—particularly since no way is this one going to end in blowjobs and bacon—but he looks around to make sure the bullpen's mostly empty, then says, "So, um—sorry about Saturday. I didn't mean to, like. Make things weird."

Jon laughs, weakly. "Uh, yeah. No worries, you were, like, drunk." He pauses; he's still facing his computer, and Tommy can't see his face. "Listen, though, you—you're serious about Matt, right? You're not, like, playing with him, right? Because he's a really good guy, and—"

Tommy waves his hands in the air, even though Jon can't see him, like he's trying to erase the idea from the air. "No! No, I—Jesus, no, Matt is incredible, I wouldn't. He's so sweet and easygoing and funny and—he's a fucking catch, I wouldn't. I mean, I wouldn't anyway, but like, that would be so fucking stupid and self-defeating." He laughs, feeling so much looser now Jon's taken this conversation down such an easy path. Tommy could praise Matt all day, no sweat. "I mean, you know how amazing he is, obviously."

"Uh, yeah," Jon says. He shrugs, lets out a little half-laugh. "Yeah, no, he's always been amazing. It's, um, it's good that you get that." 

"Totally. _Totally_." Tommy's on cloud nine; he's been dreading this conversation half the weekend, and Jon just wants reassurance that Tommy's serious about Matt? This is the best. Jon is the best. "He's, like—I mean, it's early, but he's like the best boyfriend ever. He's so fun, you know? He's always up for anything and he doesn't take anything too seriously and he's got such a big heart."

"Uh-huh," Jon says. He starts scrolling through his email. 

"He's just—yeah. I really think, I mean, it really feels like we have real potential," Tommy says, because that's what he'd want to hear from his sister's boyfriend. A plan to commit. "It really feels like—who knows where life takes us, but he's really someone I can see myself with for the long term."

"Great," Jon says. He picks up the coffee, says, "I should check in with Axe, I'll see you later."

"Yeah, man," Tommy says, and sags back in his chair as soon as Jon's out of sight. Fucking hell, that went better than he could have possibly guessed. What a relief.

***

Matt is tied up in support work most of the day—"Doing that sexy, sexy filing," he generally calls it—but he swings by around six to propose that Jon and Tommy take off with him to go watch sports.

"Everyone else is going out," Matt says. "So we can chill at the Pad instead of at mine. Bigger TV, better quality of life. Good start to the weekend." He grins at them. "Yeah?"

They're in. Tommy needs another twenty to wrap up what he's doing; the brothers Favreau chit-chat behind him, a low buzz of sound, not too distracting. He hears Jon trying to demur, briefly, "You and Tommy can just—" and Matt telling him, "Don't be ridiculous, we both want to hang out with you." 

Tommy guesses this plan is Matt's way of making sure Jon doesn't feel on the outs about … everything. He wouldn't put it past Matt to have arranged for the rest of the house to be going out together, although they usually do on Fridays anyway. For a chill guy, Matt usually knows how to orchestrate what he wants. 

They take the L back, Matt pressed close against Tommy with a warm hand on his thigh. It's Tommy's favorite thing, and Matt knows it—the casual, declarative intimacy of it. Not too much for public transport, but indisputably clear. No one touches a friend like that. 

Jon's on Matt's other side, knees wide. Matt likes to cross his, knee over knee, so they end up taking up the same amount of space as any two people who are sitting like Tommy is, subway-polite with his feet together. He wonders if they realize how well they fit together, like two puzzle pieces, or two of those trees that have grown entangled. He wonders how they stay this close, this entwined, after years on opposite coasts. Matt has jumped from job to job, including a notable stint as a beach bum and a completely separate run as a ski bum. Matt is not likely to wind up working in the White House with them, or on the next campaign if—Tommy raps his knuckles on the metal seat for want of wood—they don't win this one. 

Tommy hopes he comes to DC, anyway. He's not sure what there is for Matt in DC—no beaches, no mountains—but Matt seems to have a gift for finding the best bits of everywhere he lives, so: maybe. Tommy threads his fingers through Matt's, on his thigh, and squeezes. Matt makes a pleased noise and keeps talking to Jon about the construction around Fenway. 

They pick up food on the way, a burrito place in their neighborhood they've gotten addicted to. Matt comes over sometimes, he claims, just for the proximity to deliciousness. Tommy glances at Matt before he orders, hoping Jon doesn't catch the barely-voiced conversation, but Matt laughs and says, "Get the steak one you like," so Tommy shrugs and does, mentally crosses fucking off his evening's possible agenda. 

He thinks, instead, this is one of those nights when Matt wants to chill with the both of them until they're all half-asleep, crawl into bed with a heavy arm around Tommy's waist and not think about sex until the morning. Tommy likes those evenings, too. The three of them always have fun together; they never seem to run out of things to talk about. Tommy never seems to stop smiling, when he hangs out with them.

Tonight's no exception, but it's not quite the same, either. Jon's on edge. Tommy didn't catch it at first, but in the familiar worn-down living room of the Pad, it's obvious. Jon can't settle, keeps jumping up to get drinks and snacks and napkins. He tries to excuse himself up to his room twice; the second time, Matt actually sits on him, laughing. "No leaving! We're having fun!"

"Mandatory fun is the best kind," Tommy adds, grinning at Jon. "Don't make him wrestle you, he's stronger than he looks."

"Believe me, I know." Jon throws his hands up. "Okay, okay, mercy, uncle. Get off me, you smell like paper dust and it's making me think about work."

Matt slides off him, comes around to Tommy's side and pushes Tommy into the middle. "We can't have that," he says. "It's Friday. Think about beer and basketball, only. Tommy, you'd better protect him from my work smell." He pushes again, until Tommy's up against Jon, Matt draped over his other side. Matt can't be comfortable, with his torso half behind Tommy's body and his chin tucked over Tommy's shoulder, but it's nice for Tommy. Cozy. 

"Sorry about him," Tommy tells Jon, and Jon snorts. 

"I'm used to it. He's always been the weird twin. There's gotta be one, you know."

Matt pipes up, "He's the smart twin, so it works out." 

Tommy picks up his beer. "Have you guys worked out all the attributes? Does one of you get the gold medal in tooth-brushing, too?"

Jon snorts. "He's the weird one, the chill one, the hot one, the social one—"

"The hot one?" Tommy interrupts. "You're _identical_. That's not how that works." It's awkward to be pointing out Jon's hotness to him while squeezed between them, but honestly. What a ridiculous idea. 

Jon just shrugs, takes a sip of his own beer. "He's the confident one."

"Oh, yeah, sure," Tommy says. "Jon Favreau, king of the Chicago bar scene, so lacking in confidence." Tommy has watched Jon walk right up to some of the hottest girls Tommy's seen in his life and get their numbers—real numbers, numbers he called later and they said yes to going out with him. Jon has confidence coming out of his ears. 

Jon laughs, but it's uncomfortable. "Anyway—"

Matt doesn't cut in, and Matt usually knows when it's okay to push Jon, even better than Tommy does. Tommy wants to ignore that and prod Jon anyway, poke him until he admits he's gorgeous and confident, but even as he's thinking about it, that sounds like a truly terrible idea. "Anyway, this game sucks," Tommy says. "What else is on? Should we just pick a movie?"

"Sure," Jon says. "I gotta piss, be right back. You guys pick something."

Once he's out of the room, Tommy nudges Matt back towards his side of the couch. "Give a man some space, Matt." 

"Mm, thought you'd like being pressed up against him," Matt says, low and with a laugh in his voice. "You do, right?"

"That's not—he—" Tommy feels himself actually spluttering. "Matt!"

Matt laughs again. "C'mon, get your thrills where you can, babe. Squeezed up between sexy twins. He's right, though, I am the hot one, at least until he gives up on that stupid buzzcut." 

Tommy picks up one of the steak fries from Matt's burrito combo and pushes it into Matt's mouth. "No more talking," he says. "You're—the whole point of tonight is to make Jon not feel weird."

"Is that the point?" Matt says, muffled around the fry. "That wasn't _my_ point." 

Tommy definitely needs to know what the hell Matt's point was, then, but the door to the bathroom creaks open and Jon's back, and there's not exactly a good way to ask Matt now. He could write it down, maybe—no, that's ridiculous. This whole situation is ridiculous. At least Jon has some space on the couch now, six good solid friendship inches between him and Tommy. No weirdness here. 

He coughs, and picks up the remote. "We forgot to pick a movie, sorry."

"Busy making out," Matt says, brightly. "What's your pleasure, bro? History Boys? Brokeback Mountain? High School Musical?"

"That's an incredible list of suggestions," Jon says. "Just incredible. Should be quoted in a museum. But we're not at your apartment, and I don't own any of those. I've got 300, if you're just really in the mood for mostly naked men."

"Not killing each other, ideally," Matt says. He's put on a fey voice to tease Jon. "Surely you have the classic and seminal Party Monster, starring McCaulay Culkin and the werewolf from Buffy?"

Jon laughs and goes to the messy DVD shelves in the corner. "I think Cody has But I'm a Cheerleader," he says. "Compromise?"

"Works for me," Tommy says. He thinks he watched that once, in high school maybe. There's something with pink and blue unitards, maybe. He's up for quirky, tonight. "You get lesbians, Matt gets gay dudes, everyone's happy."

Jon says, "Uh—yeah," and puts the DVD in, staying crouched by the TV and using the buttons on the DVD player to start the movie. "Okay, everybody shut up and watch," he adds, coming back to the couch and leaning close against the arm. The friendship distance has increased to a foot and a half. Well—fine. Whatever. Let Jon have his space, if that's what makes him comfortable. Tommy's comfortable over here, pressed up against Matt. 

Tommy's so comfortable that by the time the credits roll, he's most of the way to asleep, head pillowed on Matt's shoulder, knees curled against Matt's thighs. There's a pillow wedged in there, somewhere, and he doesn't know where it came from. He means to wake up—it's not that late, even—but he's warm and his brain is as floaty as his body feels weighed down, that perfect pre-sleep state that Tommy craves and so often can't reach. 

The TV clicks off. "Is he out?" Jon asks, voice soft. 

"Think so," Matt says. "Jon—"

"Please don't." Jon sounds serious. "It doesn't have to be a—problem. It's not—I'll get over it."

Matt's fingers pet Tommy's hair, softly. "You know I would never have—if I'd known, I would have backed off."

Someone chokes out a laugh; Tommy can only tell it's Jon because Matt's chest doesn't move. "No, I'm the one who—didn't even realize what I had until—it's not your fault. You didn't know because I didn't know. So it's not anything you could have, like. I don't blame you for anything." 

There's a long pause. Tommy doesn't know what they're talking about, but he's sure they don't mean him to listen. It would just take so much effort, right now, to lift his head or make a noise. He'll just forget whatever it is, anyway, so close to sleep that this feels more like a dream than an experience. 

"If you asked me to, I'd end it," Matt says, so quietly Tommy almost can't hear him. "But please don't ask me to."

"Wouldn't work anyway," Jon says with effort. "It's obvious that's not—" He pauses. "That's not on the table, even if—and I wouldn't do that to you. Either of you."

If there's more, Tommy doesn't hear it. He wakes up in his own bed, Matt's chest under his cheek, sunlight warm on his back. "Hey, baby," Matt tells him. "You really crashed, huh?"

"Guess so," Tommy says, shaking the cobwebs of sleep out of his head. He remembers—a dream, must be, bodies curled around his, touching him. Matt, definitely, and— "Oh, shit, I think I had a sex dream about you and Jon."

Matt brightens, grinning at him. "Did you now," he asks, voice honeyed with interest. "Tell me more."

Tommy shakes his head, face hot. "There's not much more to be, uh, had. I just remember—you know. Nudity. Touching." 

"Not a bad start to a Saturday." Matt slides a hand up Tommy's chest and strokes a thumb over his Adam's apple. "Make something up, then. Impress me." 

Matt pushes Tommy's shirt up and kisses the fuzz above his belly button, and then the fuzz below. "Go on," he says. "Tell me a story, Tommy."

Tommy fucking loves the weekend.

***

Tommy's deep into a book about Pakistan's nuclear program when Matt says, "So Jon'll be here in like twenty minutes. Wanna test-run that twin thing?"

"Hmm?" Tommy asks, setting the book down. "What thing?"

"You, me, Jon," Matt says. He crosses the room and knees up onto the couch, leaning over Tommy, moving the book onto the coffee table. "Sex."

There's no air in this apartment, suddenly; Tommy can't breathe. "What?" It comes out like a squeak. 

Matt leans down and kisses his neck. Tommy moves his head to the side to give him room, automatically, eyes sliding shut as Matt nibbles. "Hang on, wait," Tommy says. "Wait, what—are you fucking with me?"

"I'm saying I'd like to fuck with you tonight," Matt says. "And so would Jon. So—"

Tommy shakes his head, and Matt sits back, heavy on Tommy's thighs. "This is crazy," Tommy says. "First of all—of the many, many reasons this is ridiculous—Jon's not into me like that."

Matt squints at him. "You're kidding, right?" He must see in Tommy's face that he isn't, because he adds, more gently, "He kissed you at a party, remember?"

Tommy splutters. "Yeah, but I thought that was you!"

" _He_ knew he wasn't me. For such a smart guy, Tommy, sometimes you're a little slow on the uptake."

Tommy puts a hand across his face. "I—right. Right. Jesus, how did I not catch that?"

"I think you were busy feeling guilty instead of sexy, which is always a mistake in my book," Matt tells him, and slides a hand up Tommy's chest, t-shirt wrinkling under his fingers. "Should I text Jon and tell him we're just gonna watch a movie, or—"

Tommy swallows, tries to breathe. Swallows again. "Text him and tell him to stop for wine," he says. "I need a bit of extra time to get ready."

Matt laughs, triumphant and pleased. "Yeah, baby, all the time you want." He climbs off, leans down to kiss Tommy's mouth and his cheekbone. "Bathroom's all yours."

In the end, Jon shows up before Tommy's out of the shower; Tommy finds him on the couch with Matt, talking about basketball, after Tommy's gotten dressed. He supposes he didn't have to do that, could have come out in a towel, but that seemed even more presumptuous than the cleaning routine already was. 

"Uh, hey," Tommy says, waving. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. Matt doesn't lie; there's no way this isn't exactly what he said it was, but that doesn't take the pressure off. Knowing Jon wants it—wants Tommy—is its own new pressure. Tommy's wanted Jon since long before he met Matt, long before he ever thought Jon could ever be an option, and he's happy with Matt, doesn't regret anything, but this is still—it's still _Jon_. It's overwhelming and terrifying and so hot Tommy's thighs are shaking with it. 

"Hey," Matt says, beckoning Tommy over. "Come tell him that thing about Villanova's shooting guard you were telling me." 

Tommy's not sure what he expected, but it wasn't the three of them sitting around shooting the shit like it's any other evening, like he somehow hallucinated Matt sitting on him and saying Jon wants a threesome. Technically the word threesome hadn't come into it; maybe that's not the word for one guy sharing two brothers. They probably try not to touch too much; they probably avert their eyes. 

He settles onto the couch next to Matt, tries to figure out how to look normal and act normal and not think about Jon's mouth, Jon's chest under his shirt. Jon and Matt both touching him. 

"He's, uh," Tommy says. He _does_ have strong opinions about the team Villanova's fielding this year, but damned if he can remember them. "Good."

"Insightful," Matt says, grinning. "This is why you're a high-ranking member of a political campaign, huh?"

Jon clears his throat. "I brought wine," he says. "Anyone want a glass?"

 _I want the whole bottle,_ Tommy doesn't say. Matt is ahead of him, anyway, glancing between him and Jon. "Maybe," Matt says. "Let's try this, first."

Matt leans toward Jon and … Jon kisses him, opening up into it fast and easy and familiar, like they've done this a thousand times. Tommy's staring; he never wants to blink again. He thinks he remembers, maybe, Matt saying they made out at bars sometimes to get men's attention, but he hadn't thought it would be like _this_ , Jon's hand gripping the back of Matt's neck, Matt's hand on Jon's thigh. 

Jon breaks off, after what feels like forever and no time at all. He looks at Tommy, looks—bashful, or nervous. Maybe both. "Okay?"

Tommy can't imagine saying anything to that except, breathless, " _Yes_." That must be enough, because Jon leans back in.

They're kissing almost lazily, now, like they have all night. Maybe they do; Tommy's certainly not going to tell them to stop. He's not opposed to watching as a concept, and especially not when it's this, this fucking plot stolen directly from his fantasies. If they want to make out all night, Tommy will enjoy himself. At this rate, he'll enjoy himself all over the inside of the cute boxer-briefs Matt bought him. 

Although … on the other hand, Matt had suggested there'd be some level of participation, and if this is Tommy's one night with both of them, maybe this PG-13 voyeurism won't actually be enough. 

Eventually he says, too breathy, "Not that I'm not appreciating the show..." and Matt takes the hint, pulls back with a smirk on his face. Jon looks kind of dazed, but he turns toward Tommy when Matt nudges his elbow, leans over Matt so that he's hovering above him, lower lip sucked in between his teeth. "Hey," Tommy says, tilting his face up.

"Is this okay?" Jon says, hushed, and he's so different from Matt, the little wrinkle in his forehead, his eyes blown wide, mouth pink from kissing. Different, but Tommy likes it too. He's always liked it. Jon cares so visibly all the time.

"Yeah," Tommy says, and then: "You should kiss me." 

Tommy can't help but wonder, if he makes this good for Jon, if Jon will want to come back, to at least be in his and Matt's bed occasionally. He'll take that; that seems like almost enough. 

It doesn't seem _anything_ like enough when Jon starts kissing him, hands on Tommy's face, tender and slow and like he's mapping Tommy's every tiny reaction.

Matt, behind them, says "Nice," and audibly unzips his pants.

Jon laughs, breaking off from Tommy's mouth. Tommy can't stop staring at the red of Jon's lips, wondering if they'll be swollen by the time Jon leaves tonight. "We should go to bed," Tommy says, feeling nervous but wanting it too much not to ask. 

They make it into the bedroom, somehow, and then Tommy's kissing Jon again, both of them on their knees on the comforter. He wants _everything_ , those things Matt told him about, like—Christ, like one of them fucking him while he sucks the other off.

One thing at a time, though. The bed dips next to Tommy, and when Jon pulls back, face red and panting, both of them are looking down at him, eyes hungry.

Everything about this situation is throwing Tommy off balance, but he can at least use his comfort with Matt. He pushes Matt's shirt up and leans in to mouth at the top of his hip, where he's sensitive.

"Jon likes that, too," Matt says, cupping the back of Tommy's head. "You should try it."

Tommy glances over at Jon, can't help it. Jon's staring at the two of them like he can't stop, now that he has permission to look. Now that he's here with them like this. Matt twines his fingers in Tommy's hair for a better grip and nudges him toward Jon, watches as Tommy raises his hands to the hem of Jon's henley.

Tommy's slower about it this time, more tentative, but Matt's hand on the back of his head is firm and solid. Tommy can see the muscles in Jon's stomach twitching as he bends down to suck at his hip bone.

Jon makes different noises, too, it turns out: quiet, high, a little choked back. One of Jon's hands comes up to grip the side of Tommy's head, like he's trying to steady himself as Tommy sucks a mark into his skin. Tommy—wants to know what other sounds he can get Jon to make. He wants to know everything.

Tommy wants Jon's fly open, like Matt's is. He lets his hands creep up Jon's thighs, feeling out the muscle there, skirting around the sides of the bulge of his dick under the denim. He taps a finger on Jon's top button, and Matt, not Jon, says, "Yeah, babe. Take him out. You want to suck him? Show him how good you are with your mouth?"

Jon and Tommy both inhale sharply, in unison, Jon's abdomen going tense. He exhales, slow and loud, as Tommy undoes the button of his jeans and eases the zipper down. Jon's underwear is gray, a damp spot in front already, and Tommy's mouth waters. He leans over again before he can second guess himself, mouthing at Jon's erection through the fabric, and Jon makes another one of those soft, punched-out noises. "That's it," Matt says, over the ringing in Tommy's ears. "He loves that."

Tommy wonders if Matt knows just through observation or also from experience, if—God, if they've touched each other like this—but it doesn't seem like the right time to ask. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Jon's boxer-briefs and tugs them down around his thighs instead, watches Jon's dick pop out and slap against his stomach, flushed and gorgeous.

"You're gonna love his mouth," Matt says. His tone is low and seductive; he knows exactly what he's doing to both of them, Tommy's pretty sure.

Tommy can see the effect on Jon, who's fattening up almost as Tommy watches, red against his belly. They aren't precisely identical here, Tommy notices, and then he has to know how Jon tastes, if it's distinct and new.

Jon's hand curls around Tommy's ear, thin fingers moving restlessly against Tommy's hair, and—Tommy thinks about how Matt takes because he knows Tommy will give it to him, thinks about how Jon isn't like that at all. Tommy slides close again, settling on his knees and balancing one hand against Jon's hip, where the mark he left on Jon's skin is coming in darker already. It's Tommy's turn to take.

He reaches out with his other hand, and Jon hisses a little when Tommy closes it around his dick, palm too dry to rub comfortably. He slides it down to the base anyway, and then leans in, tongue darting out to trace the head, twice, three times, before dragging through the precome gathered at the tip.

"Tom," Jon says, voice cracked clean in half, trying to hold himself so still that he's shaking a little bit. "Holy shit."

Tommy knew Jon would be different, but he didn't realize how different touching Jon would make _Tommy_ feel. What he has with Matt is new and fun and easy. Jon is Tommy's best friend, and sliding his mouth over the head of Jon's cock, feeling Jon's gaze on him, feels nothing like going down on Matt.

He feels Matt shifting, moving around behind Tommy and getting his fingers under Tommy's shirt hem. "Let Jon admire your rockin' bod while you blow him, babe," Matt says, laughing.

Tommy's face floods with heat as Matt coaxes his top off. It's not like Jon's never seen him shirtless before—that ship sailed a long time ago—but the context here is totally different. Jon's never looked at Tommy like he's looking now, as if he wants to map out all of Tommy's freckles with his mouth, and it makes Tommy's stomach flip, makes his fingers fumble when they reach back out to trace the line of Jon's dick.

One of Matt's hands skates up Tommy's back, firm and encouraging. "There," he says, and when Tommy leans down to take Jon in his mouth again, he sucks a little harder.

Jon's quiet; Tommy wants to know what it will take to make him as noisy as Matt. He groans around Jon's cock, lets it rumble in his mouth, and hears Jon's breath catch.

Matt is leaning in close to them both, dick hard against Tommy's shoulder. "He's so good, isn't he? His mouth is so good."

"Yeah," Jon rasps, and then Tommy hears wet kissing above him and has to, _has to_ , look.

Tommy's thought about this much more than he'd care to admit over the past few months, imagined it and dreamed about it, but it's still something else entirely to see it in person. It's just—they're both so hot, and they're pushing against one another like they know everything about each other, Matt's fingers nudging against Jon's jaw to ease his mouth open wider, Jon's hands scrabbling up the lattice of Matt's rib cage now that he's too desperate to be modest.

They look good together, Tommy thinks, two pieces of the same puzzle. It's hotter now than on the couch, because this is far from lazy kissing, with Tommy sucking Jon off, with Matt's hard-on pressing against Jon's hip through his jeans. That, by itself, is more than Tommy thought they'd be willing to do, and it fills him with squirmy, guilty desire that they'd do more. 

Slightly more than that, though, he wants Jon's attention back, and he sucks harder, sloppier, until spit drips down to wet the path of his hand. Jon's face screws up, breaking the kiss, and it's Matt who looks down admiringly at Tommy; it's Matt who puts his hand in Tommy's hair again and directs his movements for a moment, until Tommy shuts his eyes to fully feel it.

Matt moves again, crouching next to Tommy, and Tommy's heart beats faster, wondering if—if he'll—but Matt just puts his mouth against Tommy's ear, breathes, "Jon's so fucking into this, baby, you're sucking him just right."

Tommy groans around Jon's dick, too loud, and then slides down as far as he can, choking a little. Jon's a little slimmer than Matt, but he sits further back in Tommy's throat, filling his mouth differently, and he tastes muskier, not as salty. Different but good, too; Tommy's beginning to sense a pattern here, and going down this path sends a dangerous thrill up his spine. He breathes in through his nose and exhales on a whimper, hollows his cheeks and sucks, opens his eyes to look up at the way Jon's mouth twists and his eyes flutter shut.

"We got you, Tommy," Matt says, and his hand sweeps down Tommy's back again, fingers curling near his tailbone before sliding further down to pinch his ass. Tommy gasps, bobbing back against Matt's touch and then forward again. Above him, he hears Jon make another swallowed noise. Matt says, "We're gonna take such good care of you."

"Matt," Jon says, just the one word and then silence, but Matt must get something from it that Tommy doesn't, because he pulls Tommy back and off of Jon. Tommy feels bereft, for a moment, but then Matt is kissing him, differently than usual, tongue sweeping around Tommy's mouth like he's gathering up the taste of Jon. Tommy has to reach down, hand shaking, to press his cock down in his jeans.

Jon sucks in deep breaths above them, loud and unsteady, and then says, "Tommy looks uncomfortable."

It's not exactly the kind of compliment Tommy was hoping for, but it gets Matt's fingers on his fly, so he supposes he'll take it.

Tommy leans back after Matt unzips him, wiggles out of his pants and his underwear, peels his socks off and drops them over the edge of the bed, too overwhelmed to consider folding anything. There are more important things to do with his hands.

"Seems kind of unfair that both of you are still dressed," Tommy says, managing to keep his voice mostly level. Matt grins, wide and easy, and Jon ducks his head, looking up through his eyelashes. Tommy's—fucking obsessed with it, cataloging every little thing; he should just be honest about it now, laid bare like this in front of both of them.

"Let us just admire you for another minute," Matt says, tilting his head against Jon's, the very picture of glee. Tommy flushes hot under the scrutiny, and the corners of Matt's mouth curl even more. "Told you he gets red all over," he continues, and Jon's jaw goes slack, lips parting, the tip of his tongue flicking out.

They've _talked_ about him. Of course they have, but—Jesus. Tommy wonders what else Matt has told Jon. Enough to make Jon agree to this, at least, and that makes Tommy nervous, wanting to be sure he lives up to it all.

"We should, um," Tommy says, trying to think what he could offer, what they'd like. What he knows they like, from what Matt has told him. "We could—if you want, I could ... finish what I was doing, and," turning towards Matt, a little easier to make a suggestion to him, "You could fuck me. Like—all of it at the same time." He swallows, clears his throat. "If you want."

Matt grabs him and kisses him, and Tommy hears Jon make an actual noise beside them, something surprised and turned-on. So something's working on him, anyway, at least a little.

Tommy's breathing hard again when Matt pulls back and wipes his mouth. "You know, that's what I like about you, Tommy," Matt says, peeling his shirt off and knee-walking around him, twisting in to drop a brief, open-mouthed kiss at the soft skin behind his ear. "You always come up with good plans."

There's a muscle jumping at Jon's jaw when Tommy glances back at him, and his eyes seem liquid in the light. Jon wiggles out of his shirt too, pushes his jeans farther down his thighs, doesn't break eye contact the entire time. Tommy swallows hard around the lump in his throat and tips forward, bends down, because that feels easier, somehow, than looking Jon in the face right now and hoping that the expression on Tommy's isn't giving everything away.

It feels easier to fit his lips around Jon's dick, to lose himself in trying to get Jon off as well as he can, because—that's his best bet, right? Give Jon a night that he can't forget, and hope that he'll want to do it again, that he'll want Tommy again, that maybe Tommy can use his mouth and his hands and his body in any way possible to convince Jon to come back. 

He braces himself on Jon's thigh, feels the muscle jumping under his hand. Tommy's bobbing showily, knows he's overdoing it a little, tilting his head as he slides up and down Jon's cock. "Hang—hang on," Jon says suddenly, pulling back, curling a hand between his dick and Tommy's mouth.

Tommy glances up and Jon's staring at him, lips parted, looking—Christ, Tommy doesn't know. He thought he was good at reading Jon, but that could be arousal, could be frustration, could be _anything_. "Too much?" Matt asks, behind Tommy, and Jon nods, looks away from Tommy. Arousal, then, maybe. Fine. That's a start.

Tommy can't watch Jon anymore; it's too frustrating. He drops to his elbows, forehead on the bed, as Matt rolls the tip of a wet fingertip into him, soft and easy. "He loves it," Matt says. Jon doesn't say anything back. Tommy likes Matt talking about him like this, but Jesus, if Jon could just _say_ something.

Jon's the one who's supposed to be good with his words, but maybe he's just good at putting them in other people's mouths. Matt fucks into Tommy with his finger, pace slow, the squelch of it too loud in the quiet room, and Tommy lets out a shuddering breath when Matt pushes three in at once, his body making room, opening up around them.

He can't help pushing back, spine arching into it, and Jon makes another surprised sound. A hand comes down to card through Tommy's hair, too gentle to be Matt, resting almost tentatively against the nape of Tommy's neck, as if a touch like this could be more loaded than sticking his dick in Tommy's mouth.

Tommy clenches down around Matt's fingers, squirming, and Matt laughs. "Alright, alright, I know," he says, and pulls them out. Tommy feels empty for two seconds, and then Matt is lining himself up, the blunt head rubbing against the seam of his ass. Tommy spreads his legs wider, an automatic response, panting into the sheets.

"No—no condoms?" Jon says, sounding off-kilter, voice scraped raw. Tommy can't tell if he's concerned or turned on by this development, but he knows what he wishes it was.

"We're not fucking around," Matt says, breathy. "You don't count, obviously." There's a laugh in his voice, and Jon's fingers curl against Tommy's scalp.

Tommy can't focus on anything right now but the way Matt is pushing into him, splitting him open, hard and huge and everything Tommy wants. "God," Matt grunts. "So tight, Tommy."

"You could open him up more," Jon says, a little too sharp, too much of a rebuke. Matt just laughs again, though. It's hard to piss Matt off.

"He likes it like this," Matt says. "Don't you, babe?" Tommy nods, and Matt reaches down, hips stilling, to slide a couple of fingers into Tommy's mouth. "Christ, you're so hot. Isn't he hot?"

"Yeah," Jon says, and it sounds sincere, at least. Tommy needs it to be sincere. He's spread out in front of Jon, taking it, still the only naked one in the room; he needs Jon to like this, or the vulnerability is going to kill him. He turns his face further towards the bed, dislodging Matt's fingers, and Matt moves his hand back to Tommy's hip.

"Tell him how hot he is," Matt says, and now he's the pointed one. Now he's the one with the rebuke.

"I—" Jon says, half bitten off, and a tangled sob tumbles out of Tommy's mouth, wet and heavy.

When Tommy looks up again, Jon's so red, his throat working. "Please," Tommy says, so far beyond embarrassment that it feels like nothing at all to push past this, the point of begging. If not now, then when? He's not even sure what he's asking for anymore, but Jon's eyes go wide, gaze sweeping over Tommy's clumped lashes, the sheen of sweat on his skin, every thrust of Matt's hips that makes Tommy rock forward against the bed, hair flopping in his face.

Tommy leans up, deliberate, and presses his mouth against the purple spot on Jon's hip again. Jon gasps, the hand in Tommy's hair tugging just hard enough to make his eyes water even more, and then it's like a dam breaking, Jon murmuring, "You—you're so fucking—you're perfect, okay? Jesus, Tom," Jon cradling Tommy's chin, hooking fingers into Tommy's mouth to replace Matt's, Tommy tonguing breathlessly at his knuckles and squeezing his eyes shut at the naked wonder on Jon's face. _Fuck_ , Tommy thinks, and _okay_ , but most of all _please_ again, over and over: _please fuck me harder, please put your dick in my mouth, please fill me up so it's all I can taste and smell and feel, so that it's the only thing I'll be able to think about after this_.

Matt fucks into Tommy a little harder, grips him tighter.

Tommy wants—he doesn't want one of them to come before he gets both of them at once, so he sucks hard on Jon's fingers, hinting. Asking.

"God," Jon says, which isn't a clear enough answer. His fingers slide out of Tommy's mouth to cup his jaw, though, which is. Tommy noses at Jon's cock, and Jon wraps his other fist around it, pointing it at Tommy. Offering it.

It feels like the most intentional thing Jon's done all night; dimly, Tommy thinks he should probably reward that, encourage it. He's too strung out to match Matt's rhythm well, but he still tries to make it good, tongue working beneath the head and sliding forward as far as he can, gagging a little when Matt starts fucking into him harder, driving him up the bed against Jon's crotch. Tommy's throat is going to be sore tomorrow—he'll remember this every time he swallows.

"Tommy," Jon says, tight and raspy, "so good, so lovely, Tom, I'm gonna," and Matt says, voice unraveling, "You should—you should come on his face, he loves that." Tommy flicks his eyes up in time to see the expression that flits over Jon's features at _that_. There's no room to be ashamed about how desperate he feels when Jon's panting and sweating above him, eyes darting back and forth between the way Tommy's lips are stretched around Jon's dick and how Tommy must look being split open. Tommy can’t be anything but needy when the roll of Matt's hips is erratic now, but still so hard Tommy can feel it rattling in his teeth.

"I—can I?" Jon asks, and it sounds like _please_ in Tommy's ears. Tommy pulls off and nods, and Jon's fingers tangle with his on Jon's spit-wet cock, stroking it.

"So fucking hot," Matt gasps. His hips are twisting the way they do when he's close, like he can't keep his muscles working right. "Come all over him, Jon, just cover him in it, that's so good."

Jon's trying—Tommy's trying—all of them are working together, it feels like, to make Jon come on Tommy's face. Tommy darts his tongue out to lap, once, right at Jon's slit, and then Jon stutters out a groan and Tommy closes his eyes.

The splash of it on him makes Tommy desperate for breath, mouth dropping open, some of it catching on his lips and his tongue. "Tommy, Tommy, I— _Tom_ —" Jon's hand is on his face, thumb sweeping through the come on his cheek. "So beautiful, Tommy." Matt, behind him, groans, and his fingers tighten on Tommy's hips hard enough to bruise.

Tommy can't usually come without being touched, but his dick is leaking against his thigh, so hard it hurts, body primed and heaving and tense, and he thinks—maybe, maybe.

His eyes fly open again when Jon hauls him halfway up and bends down to kiss him, filthy and desperate, tasting himself in Tommy's mouth, and Matt gasps, "Fuck, Jon," pushes in one last time as deep as he can, and comes, nails stinging as they bite into Tommy's skin.

Tommy squeezes around Matt, trying to ride him through it, the hot splash of his come filling Tommy up. Matt hisses, and Jon sighs, and Tommy's wound so tight he feels like he might explode if he can't come in the next ten seconds.

"Tommy—hey, baby, Tommy," he hears, and it takes him a moment to realize they're both saying his name and that he's started to cry, throat aching, hot tears mingling with the jizz still on his cheeks, his chin. Tommy wants to turn his face into a pillow and hide, but he can't—not when Matt, still inside him, hooks his arm around Tommy's neck and pulls him all the way up, so that Tommy's back is flush against his chest, so Jon can see everything: Tommy's whole body set aflame, his cock heavy between his legs.

"Look at the mess we made," Matt says, kissing the side of Tommy's neck, the damp skin behind his ear. Tommy blinks, trying to suck in enough air to calm down, and can't quite manage it. Jon's staring at him like he never wants to stop looking.

Jon's throat works, but he doesn't say anything. Matt says, "What do you want?" and Tommy doesn't know who he's asking.

Jon, still staring at Tommy, says, "I want to see you come."

Tommy wants to come for Jon, wants to, is so close—

"Come for me, Tommy," Jon tells him, low and certain, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and does, striping his belly with it, hands grasping in the air until someone grabs them and holds them tight.

When he manages to take another breath, Matt is kissing his neck, his ear, murmuring that Tommy's done a good job. Jon's still holding his hands, but as Tommy opens his eyes, Jon's leaning down to lap some of the come off his stomach. Tommy has to shut them again, can't watch this as well as feel it or he'll—faint, maybe. Die, possibly.

Matt is warm and solid against his back, arm still looped around him. Tommy sags, boneless. He can feel himself slipping, and then there's a pillow beneath his head, shifting on the bed, the sound of water running.

His head spins a little when he finally opens his eyes again, and Jon's tucked back inside his underwear, folded against the headboard with a damp washcloth in his hands. "Hey," he says, when Tommy catches his gaze. He sounds nervous.

"Hi," Tommy says, the corner of his mouth lifting. He's still naked, feels like an exposed wire, sparking and twitching, but Jon slides the washcloth over Tommy's face, almost reverent, and Tommy exhales slowly and lets him do it.

The other side of the bed dips, and Tommy feels Matt's mouth nibbling at the curve of his shoulder. "You did so well for us," Matt murmurs, and even as Tommy's stomach flips, his eyes are starting to droop. "How do you feel?"

Horizontal, warm—"Tired," Tommy says, and Matt laughs against his skin. He always does, after a good orgasm.

"Sleep, then," he says. Jon's hands move down to wipe at Tommy's stomach. Tommy closes his eyes.

***

Tommy wakes up overwarm, in the best morning way; he feels like he could contentedly broil to death like this, heavy-limbed. It takes a few minutes before he realizes the heat isn't just Matt and the comforter; there's another body on his other side. Jon. Tommy blinks his eyes open, and finds himself looking right into Jon's, like Jon was watching him. 

Jon's warm against him and Tommy's sore in several different places and it's partly because of Jon, who has a hand resting on Tommy's hip. Jon, who, from the feel of skin against Tommy's legs, isn't wearing jeans anymore, and who's visibly shirtless under the chest-high comforter. 

Jon looked away as soon as Tommy caught him looking, and Tommy wants his attention back. He doesn't know how to get it. He says, voice as hoarse as he'd thought it might be, "I didn't think you'd stay," but it makes Jon's expression close down, makes Jon start to roll away from him.

Tommy grabs for Jon's bicep, keeps him from going any farther. He tells him, tripping over the words, "No, I'm glad, I'm—it's good, I mean." Jon settles back down, biting his lip, and with Tommy leaned up into him to stop him, they're so close that it's impossible not to think about kissing him. It's impossible not to stare at Jon's mouth. 

It's such a chaste kiss compared to everything they did last night, close-mouthed and sweet, but Tommy feels like he's on fire anyway. He likes knowing what Jon looks like drowsy and sloe-eyed first thing in the morning. It's different when they're waking up in the same bed.

There's a big dopey grin spreading across Jon's face even though he's biting his lip, like he's trying to stop himself but can't. "Yeah?" he says—croaks, really, has to clear his throat.

Tommy ducks his head and shrugs. He's not doing a very good job of pretending to be casual about this, but he remembers how Jon looked at him yesterday—how he's looking at him right now, and thinks: he hasn't been casual about Jon since the first week they met, so he probably shouldn't start now. "I'm glad you did," Tommy repeats, firmer this time, and Jon eases in to kiss him again. 

Tommy knows Matt won't mind this, but he wonders if Jon knows that, or if Jon doesn't care. It spooks him a little. He wants this—whatever this is—to be on the up and up. He jostles the bed, intentional, and feels Matt stirring behind him.

He keeps kissing Jon, couldn't stop if he had to, until he hears Matt say, "Oh, hey, nice," in a sleepy, pleased voice.

"Hey," Tommy says, sliding a hand back until Matt grabs it and threads their fingers together, then pulls it onto his stomach and goes back to kissing Jon. It's hard to keep the kiss going because a smile keeps breaking onto his face, and finally he tilts back to grin at Jon. "Good morning?"

"Very good morning," Jon says. Jon looks over Tommy's head and Tommy rolls onto his back to watch them. They're doing the silent communication thing they do sometimes; Tommy can't follow it, exactly, but it looks positive, at least, and then ... and then it looks promising.

Matt says, more to Jon than to Tommy, "I know how to make it a good morning."

"Oh," Jon says, looking flushed but pleased.

Tommy doesn't get it immediately, except for the overall category of Something Sexy This Way Comes. He doesn't get it when Matt kisses Tommy's shoulder, or when Jon glances at Tommy's face and then nuzzles into Tommy's underarm.

He gets it, though, when they both reach his belly, kissing and nibbling their way downward, and then he's frozen in place with the promise of it, the incredible hotness.

They're moving in sync now, Jon toward Tommy's left and Matt toward his right, twin kisses on his hip bones, and it's too coordinated for them to have never done this before, which is heady to think about in and of itself.

He thinks he can handle it, has adjusted to this new and glorious reality, except then Matt lifts Tommy's dick so Jon can drag his open mouth down the length of it and Tommy thinks, hysterically, that he may have died and gone to Heaven, that that must be what's happening here. It sucks that he didn't get a chance to see Obama elected president, but this is a worthy alternative reality, after-life-wise. 

He stops thinking entirely when Matt's mouth joins Jon's, and when he sees Matt's tongue brush against Jon's lips around the top of Tommy's cock. It's impossible to think, to do anything but watch with rapt attention, when Jon laughs and pulls up enough to kiss the corner of Matt's wide-stretched mouth, or when they jokingly push each other around, cheek to cheek, jockeying for position on Tommy's dick.

Tommy's trying really hard to keep it together, but he's pretty sure that's a futile effort, especially when Matt stage whispers, "He likes it with a little bit of teeth," and Jon arches an eyebrow at Tommy, the corner of his mouth curving as he sinks back down, nibbling just the right amount. Tommy's hips rise helplessly, and Matt's hands shoot out to anchor him down.

Matt lets Jon take over, bobbing slowly on Tommy's cock, and pulls Tommy's knee up and out instead. He tips his chin towards the nightstand and Tommy groans and throws an arm out, manages to get a couple fingertips locked onto the lube they left out last night. He can still feel the ghostly soreness, but it's the kind he likes, more like the day after a good workout than real discomfort. Matt's fingers are going to feel amazing in him, he's sure of that.

If this is the kind of thing Tommy can expect to wake up to in the future, he doesn't know how he'll ever feel motivated to get out of bed again. That's a problem for a different Tommy, though—right now, the hardest decision he has to make is whether to lift up against Jon's mouth or grind down against the twist of Matt's fingers, and there's no downside to either of those options. Jon swallows him down again, throat closing around the tip of Tommy's dick as Matt rubs inside him, and Tommy tosses his head back hard enough that it hits the wooden headboard.

"Fucking ouch," he says, laughing, and Matt is chuckling against the inside of his thigh, and Jon's hand smoothes across the hitch of Tommy's stomach. He feels good and right and warm.

Thoughts float through Tommy's head about what they're doing, about what this _is_ —an extension of last night, or something else entirely?—but it's impossible to focus on them when he's being worked over like this, Matt kissing up Tommy's chest to bite his nipple, Jon working him faster now.

Tommy can't last, not when they're working together to get him off, but he tries his best to get a couple extra minutes of perfection out of it, at least. He closes his eyes and thinks about names of reporters, press release protocols, the Iowa caucus stats that have long ceased to matter but have never left his brain. 

It's not enough. Jon groans around him and Tommy's coming before he can say anything, held too perfectly in Jon's warm mouth, under Matt's solid body.

Jon—doesn't choke much at all, and Tommy's eyes fly back open so he can watch Jon swallow, the smooth suction of his lips and throat, the way his eyes look dark and blown wide above the pink tinge in his cheeks. Tommy twitches through it, oversensitive, and when Jon pulls back, a string of saliva and come drips between the tip of Tommy's dick and the red edge of Jon's mouth before he wipes it away, Adam's apple bobbing.

Matt pushes up on his knees and knocks his elbow against Jon's, the corner of his mouth rising. "Not rusty at all, huh," he says, and Jon rubs two fingers against his lips and smiles. "I guess sucking dick really is like riding a bike."

Tommy, sex-stupid and still drowsy from sleep, blurts out, "Have you two—you know—" before remembering himself and clamping his mouth shut again.

Jon flushes an even darker red, but Matt looks delighted. "Have we what?" he asks, tilting his head, and Tommy squirms a little.

"Have you ever—with each other—have you ever blown each other?" Tommy mumbles. His face is fire truck red, he's pretty sure.

Jon clears his throat and glances at Matt, who grins. "Let's show him," Matt says, casual as anything, reaching out already, and Tommy's heart is going to beat out of his fucking chest, holy shit.

Jon tips his chin up for a kiss, like it's automatic, so instant and easy that Tommy wonders how they keep from accidentally doing it at the office or on the street. They look so comfortable together, Jon's lashes dark on his cheeks when he closes his eyes and sinks into the kiss.

Matt, not surprisingly, is the one to push things forward, stroking a hand down Jon's chest and curling his fingers into Jon's waistband to tug his boxers down. Jon laughs into Matt's mouth, leans back to say, "Always so impatient."

"You love it," Matt says, and then they're kissing again, harder, tongues flashing in the morning sun as Tommy watches. They're messy like this; it's not for show, and that's what makes it so hot that Tommy gets to see, that they're letting him. He wants to watch anything they're willing to show him.

Jon's groan when Matt gets a hand around his dick sounds punched out of him. He was already most of the way hard just from sucking Tommy off, which feels like its own reward, but watching Matt's fingers work him over is something else: the deft pull of his hand down the shaft, the twist of his wrist when he gets to the head. Jon's gasping into Matt's mouth by the time he slides onto his back, Matt crouched over him, and then—in almost a span of a blink, two, Matt has turned about-face so that his cock is bobbing over Jon's mouth, and he's breathing over Jon's erection.

They're both so long, stretched out like this across the foot of the bed, Jon's feet dangling over the edge, his hands coming up to brush against Matt's rib cage, his hips. Tommy feels light-headed, and his dick is already stirring again. He reaches down to palm it, take the edge off. "So fucking hot," he murmurs, and they both turn to look at him at the same time, wearing matching smiles, so similar in this moment, in their intent, that Tommy almost forgets to breathe.

Tommy can so easily picture the first time they did this—teenagers, probably, nervous and fumbling. Not the way they are now, so easy and familiar that he feels like he can see the whole span of their lives together, the dozens or hundreds of times they've done this.

Tommy's always liked sixty-nines, more than most people; he likes getting and giving pleasure all at once, even if it's tricky. Last night's variation might be his new preference for that, but sixty-nines have always been an easy option. He and Matt haven't done it, though, yet. Now he knows Matt likes it—that they both like it—that they both might want to do it with him—

"Don't, um, let me stop you," Tommy says, and Matt winks at him before they both focus back on each other.

Tommy forces himself to lay both hands flat on the bed and just focus on them; he knows himself well enough that if he started jerking off for real, he'd come too quickly. Better to just abstain entirely and enjoy the show for now.

And it's a good show, even if they aren't necessarily performing for him; they suck each other off like it's a competition, every moan and gasp and buck of hips another challenge, spurring them forward. Matt gives wet and messy blowjobs, sucks Jon down like he's blowing a popsicle—he has the advantage here, Jon more worked up from making Tommy come, but Jon's mouth is loose and his throat is already open from swallowing around Tommy. He sucks hard and loud and Matt's spine arches as he groans around the tip of Jon's dick.

Maybe Matt senses he's starting to lose his edge on Jon, because he cheats—is it cheating? Tommy doesn't know what their rules are—and circles his hand around to Jon's ass, presses on Jon's hole. Tommy can see he's not going in, but Jon still groans, pushing back into the pressure, visibly losing his pace on Matt's cock for a moment before he dives back in.

Tommy's rarely seen them competitive; on Rock Band, once, he thinks, but he was drunk that night and he might be remembering wrong. Usually Matt is happy to let Jon "win," whatever the category, unless, Tommy supposes, the category is being laid back. Jon has the high-powered job and runs the occasional half-marathon and plays beautiful piano. Matt can pay his bills and goes to the gym enough to look good at bars and can pick out Wonderwall on Tommy's acoustic.

This, though—he wonders if they're always like this in bed, or if it's because they know he's watching. He thinks it's the first. The way they jumped into it, the way Matt let out a laugh just now when Jon had to stop and breathe when Matt rubbed his perineum—that's not something they started today.

Tommy thinks, fisting the comforter tighter to keep from touching his cock, that there's something here—something that could be good, and long-term, if they want it. He knows he does.

Tommy's hips rise helplessly against nothing when Jon squirms beneath Matt and finally comes. Matt doesn't even try to swallow, lets Jon make a mess of his chin, his mouth, grins through it and tilts his head toward Tommy so he can see it all.

Jon's arms lift up and around Matt's waist after a brief moment, haul him down so that Jon can close his mouth around the tip of Matt's cock and suck as hard as he can. Matt's eyes flutter shut when he comes. Tommy's seen that face countless times over the past few months, and it still hasn't gotten old. He doesn't think it ever will.

Jon's too strung out to swallow properly this time. Matt swings off him and turns so that they're facing each other, both their faces sticky, and leans in to lick a stripe across Jon's face, laughs when Jon huffs. "I'll get you next time," Jon says, like it's automatic, and then freezes a little, eyes darting over to Tommy, like he's not sure if he's allowed.

"Hope I get to watch the rematch," Tommy says. His voice is hoarse. "You guys take on outside challengers? Tournament-style?"

Jon says, softly, "Think I'm the outside challenger here."

Tommy sees Matt shaking his head at that, but Jon doesn't; Jon's just watching Tommy. "You aren't," Tommy tells him, and rolls up onto his knees, cock bobbing, until he can reach Jon and put a hand on his jaw. "You—Jon, you're my best friend and—this may be news to you, I don't know—you're Matt's twin, so you're actually very, um, integral, actually."

Tommy looks at Matt again, needing to know how he's taking this. He looks easy; he always looks easy, but he's smiling at Tommy, eyebrows up, his whole face saying, _Okay, I'm intrigued._

With anyone but Matt, Tommy thinks, he'd never try to have this conversation with Jon before having it with his own boyfriend. It's unthinkable. But Matt is so—Matt, about everything. He'll say no if he doesn't want it, and he won't fault Tommy after.

"I think you should be integral," Tommy says, turning back to Jon. "I think you should—we obviously fit together, you and me and Matt. We should see if we all fit together like this, too."

"I—" Jon says, and ducks his head. Tommy's known him long enough to recognize that particular tell, reaches out to tuck a hand against Jon's chin and tilt his face back up.

"You can say no if you don't want to," Tommy says, kind of unsteady, and Jon shakes his head.

"That's not it," he says, sounding pained. "I just didn't think you would, um. Want that. With me."

"Sometimes he's stupid," Matt puts in helpfully over Jon's shoulder, and Tommy laughs, can't help it, leans in to kiss the indignant look off Jon's face.

"I do," Tommy says fervently, against Jon's mouth, fingers mapping out the line of his jaw and the slope of his neck. "I want Matt and I want you—anything you'll give me."

Jon says, painfully earnest, "You can have anything you want."

"I want to be greedy," Tommy tells him, kisses him again and then leans over to pull Matt in, too, his mouth warm and familiar. "I want both of you."

"Works for me," Matt says. "And Jon has a massive crush on you, so—"

"Matt!" Jon hisses, elbowing him.

" _Do_ you," Tommy asks, delighted. "Since when?"

"Since you met and he thought you were this cool, experienced campaign guy showing him the ropes," Matt answers, when Jon doesn't. "Since he thought your ass was killer in your khakis."

Tommy grins at Jon, thumbs at his cheek. "You need glasses," he says. "No one's ass looks good in khakis."

Jon rubs a thumb across his forehead. "Yours does," he says. "Not that I figured it out until after you started dating my brother. Just thought, you know—you're my best friend, I can tell you're hot, the two things aren't connected."

"Apparently they are," Matt points out. "But I suppose it’s worked out fairly well. Better than you getting your life figured out and leaving me to drown my sorrows with the boys of Aspen after I met your perfect boyfriend and realized he could never be mine."

Tommy puts an arm around Matt’s waist. "Boys of Aspen are just gonna have to miss out, I think. Aren’t they, Jon?" He pauses, adds, "And the girls of Chicago."

"Going right for the exclusivity," Matt says. "That’s kind of hot, babe." Tommy shrugs, trying not to feel too flustered. Wishing Jon would say something. 

"Uh—so when you say you want both of us," Jon murmurs, slowly, "you really mean— _have_?"

Tommy knees closer, gets his other arm around Jon. "I said it was greedy," he says. "Is that too crazy for you? Do we need to date for a while and see, before I start rolling out all the—commitment stuff?"

Something in that seems to work, cracks Jon into a smile. "No, I know what I’m getting into with you," he says. "And with this one," flicking a couple of fingers against Matt’s shoulder and making Matt giggle. "Who I notice isn’t talking as much as usual."

Matt shrugs. "Never risked blowing you in front of anyone before," he tells Jon. "Tommy’s special. Special deserves special." Jon gives him a look that Tommy doesn’t miss, and neither does Matt, because he adds, "Look, you’re the wordsmith in the family."

"No, I like it," Jon says, nose crinkling with his grin. "Tommy is special."

"You’re both ridiculous," Tommy says. "And I love you, so—we should make some breakfast and ignore each other on the couch for a while on our laptops. Maybe go see the new Batman movie tonight. Yeah?"

They exchange another one of their silent twin looks. Tommy’s pretty sure he knows what this one means, which gives him at least a moment’s warning before they’re both pinning him down to the bed and plastering his face with kisses, moving as one with the same proprietary insistence.

Tommy hadn’t factored in the two-against-one odds. He’s pretty sure he’s going to love every minute of it.


End file.
